Blood and Bone

Copyright © 1999 by Austin S. Camacho

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Second Edition Published November 2004

ISBN 978-0-9762181-0-4

Cover Design by Cathi A. Wong

Published by:

Intrigue Publishing

10200 Twisted Stalk Ct

Upper Marlboro, MD 20772

Printed in the United States of America

“Wake up, Joey,” Floyd said to his bodyguard. “You might have to kill this one.”

The stranger drew Floyd's attention the second he walked into the club. Something marked him as a dangerous man, but it took Floyd a minute to figure out what. Like everyone else at The Tip Top that night, he was black—actually, light skinned for a black man, kind of a golden color, with wavy brown hair cut short. He was not particularly big, barely six feet and a little on the thin side. His clothes did not stand out. He wore a basic black suit and tie.

A man's eyes would sometimes draw Floyd's attention, but that could not be it this time. The stranger wore very dark wraparound shades. As the man moved around the crowded tables toward him, Floyd realized it was the stranger's attitude that had drawn his eye. This man carried a calm confidence seldom seen in a place like this in Northeast Washington D.C.

“You need something?” Floyd asked as the stranger stopped in front of him. He certainly would not rise from his chair for a nobody, and Joey and Lawrence would take care of any trouble, if anybody was stupid enough to start some. The stranger crossed his hands in front of himself, hands covered by black leather gloves. The man looked bored.

“Just to deliver a message,” the stranger said. “It's from Jewel. She says she quits.”

The music in the Tip Top was throbbing so loud Floyd could not make out the words, although he could feel the beat. It made conversation almost impossible. But he heard this man clearly.

“And you are?”

“Jones,” the stranger said. “Hannibal Jones.”

Floyd leaned forward to make sure Hannibal heard him. “You know, around here pimps don't go around trying to rip each other off. But I'll tell you what, Slick. You tell that bitch to drag her narrow ass in here in the next ten minutes, and maybe I won't mess her up too bad.”

“You've misunderstood,” Hannibal said. He dropped a card on the table. It bore his name, phone number and the word “Troubleshooter” in block letters. “The woman is under my protection,” he said. “Let it go. She's gone. Get over it.”

The music lowered, and Floyd noticed every eye in the place was on him. All of them, drunks, whores, drug addicts, and a few real people who wanted to relax for a while. They all smelled of liquor, or drugs, or cigarettes, or desperation. This Hannibal Jones did not smell of any of that. He was an island in this place, isolated and alone. Floyd glanced to his left with a wry smirk.

“Look here, stud. This here's Joey. He takes care of my light work. And that guy behind you, Lawrence, he cleans up the messes Joey leaves behind. If I was you I'd get to stepping before I pissed somebody off. You getting my message?”

“Look, can't we talk about this?” Hannibal said. Floyd's only response was a blank stare. Hannibal glared down at the floor for a moment and curled his
lips in. “The hard way he said. “It's always got to be the hard way. “Then he looked up and Floyd saw his own smile disappear in Hannibal's lenses. “Okay, who's first?” Hannibal asked.

Joey was good. There was no telegraph, no warning body language. But somehow, when his big right fist reached its target, Hannibal's face was no longer there. Floyd saw his bodyguard take a hard snap kick in the gut and a back fist across his face before Lawrence got his arms around Hannibal, locking his arms down. Somebody stopped the music but nobody spoke. It was a private hassle, but everybody wanted to watch.

“Not bad, stud,” Floyd said, “but you can't expect to come in here with that Jackie Chan shit against the big boys.”

“Uh-huh,” Hannibal said. He smashed his head back, bloodying Lawrence's nose. Then he snapped forward, grabbed Lawrence's ankle and jerked up. Floyd heard Lawrence's head thump the floor behind Hannibal. Joey moved in again, but black gloves blocked both his best punches. Then two crisp jabs and an uppercut put Joey over Floyd's table, spilling his scotch. More confused than scared, Floyd reached for the nine millimeter at the back of his waistband.

“Don't even go there, stupid.” Hannibal pulled an automatic from under his right shoulder and shoved its muzzle into Floyd's cheek. “You get your piece out, it's pure self-defense and I turn your face into abstract art.”

Silence gripped the room and the Tip Top became a still life while Floyd watched himself sweat in Hannibal's Oakleys. He thought about business and his rep and his honor. Mostly he thought about dying.

“It's your world,” Floyd said. “What now?”

“Now we negotiate and come to an agreement,” Hannibal said, sitting on the table and pulling his gun back an inch. “My terms are simple. Let it go. One girl less. No comeback.”

Floyd sat taller and straightened his face. No fear, he told himself. Back to business. “Who you work for, stud? New player coming in?”

“I work for me,” Hannibal said. “Solve other people's problems. Jewel had a problem. She wanted to get off the streets. I solved it. Now, is this over?”

Floyd considered himself a good judge of character. He could negotiate a position with this one. The man was leaving him an out, so it would not look like he was getting ripped off.

“All right, if the bitch wants out, she's out. But this better be for real. I find out she's working the streets I'll kill her. I mean anywhere, dig? I got friends all up and down the coast, and they know every whore out there. She starts hooking, her ass is mine.”

“Fair enough,” Hannibal said. “I'll pass that on. As long as she's out of the life, I'll keep her safe. Otherwise, I'm out of it.” Then he holstered his weapon and stood up. “Pleasure doing business with you. When your two friends wake up, tell them I said practice.”

Hannibal pulled into his parking space and killed the engine of his white Volvo 850 GLT. There were no markings, no sign or label, but the space was universally recognized as his.

He was on the move since early Saturday morning and his long day ended with a bar fight and a half-hour drive down to Anacostia and home. Weary as he was, Hannibal scanned the area before he opened his door. The cone of a street light covered his car's hood and peeked in through its windshield. His street looked quiet as he eased out of his white leather seat and set his anti-theft device. He smiled at his neighborhood's split personality. He had come home at a rare quiet moment, too early for the hip folks to be coming home from the party, or for the church crowd to be heading out.

His rubber soles fell silently on the red sandstone steps leading up to the front door of his red brick, three-story building. He used two keys to open the outer door. Once in the hall, he faced the central staircase but instead of turning left to his own flat he veered right. The front room of this apartment was his office. His heavy oak desk faced the door, flanked by a pair of file cabinets. A smaller desk stood beside the door on his left. He stepped across the oval broadloom rug, but before he could even riffle through
the papers in his IN box he heard footsteps from the far end of the railroad flat.

Her perfume preceded her, the sharp sting of Patchouli. “Did you talk to him?” Jewel asked in a nasal New Jersey accent. Her high-pitched voice always sounded to Hannibal as if she were about to cry.

“I took care of it, on condition you stay off the street,” Hannibal said, but his casual response did not remove the fear from Jewel's cat-like eyes. She was Hannibal's height, model thin and very black, a Nubian princess whose beauty was marred by the wear showing at the corners of her eyes. A thoroughbred, Hannibal thought, passed through too many owners and broken down by being ridden by too many jockeys.

“You won't go back on our deal?” she asked, smoothing a hand down her straight black hair. “You said if I was nervous I could stay here a few days.”

“Jewel, I'm a businessman and you know my rates. If you're willing to go the fee you can stay right there in my guest room until you feel safe. I just don't think…”

“Well I do.” Her fingers pressed into his right arm with disturbing familiarity. “You don't know Floyd. Anyway, I got plenty of money stashed away and I don't mind spending it staying alive until I figure out where I'm going. You want cash?”

“Any way you want to pay,” Hannibal said, dropping his messages back into his IN box. Nothing pressing. He would file these and check for email messages in the morning. His eyes were starting to droop.

“Any way?” Jewel asked, pressing her thumping heart against his. Hannibal stared into her frightened eyes, and they dropped closed, even as her lips
parted, inviting his tongue in. His tired mind reeled. She was beautiful, exotic, and certainly talented. She was also a client.

“Let's stick to negotiable currency.” He gently pushed her shoulders away with his index fingers. “Something I can put on my books. Besides, it's so late it's early and I'm beat. Why don't we call it a night?”

Across the hall, Hannibal walked back to the fourth door from the front and unlocked it. Loud beeps reminded him to cross his living room, reach around the bathroom door and punch in his four digit code, disabling his alarm system. Too tired to think further, he walked through his flat to the front room, dropped his clothes in a pile and crawled into bed. He silently thanked God it was Sunday morning before his eyes slid shut.

“Morning, lover,” Cindy said. “You still in bed, sleepyhead?”

Hannibal checked the absurdly expensive Porsche titanium watch Cindy gave him for Christmas. Eight fifteen. He had slept for more than four hours, but it felt like five minutes.

“Worked late,” he said, trying to pull his mind together. “Isn't it Sunday? Why're you up so early? God, I need coffee. Something going on?”

“Well, this might sound weird but I've got a job for you.”